"Don't call... don't call her..." The drunk man speaks in his sleep. Drool dribbles from…

"Don't call... don't call her..." The drunk man speaks in his sleep. Drool dribbles from the left side of his mouth and down his jacket lapel.

Let him sleep it off. [Leave.]

There's no waking him from his stupor. His mind is elsewhere.

"Hey, wake up!"

"Don't call Abigail." The drunk man looks at you with his sad, swollen eyes.

"Hey, I'm on an important official investigation, I demand you answer my questions."

"There's no use in yelling at drunks," the lieutenant interjects. "He's barely holding it together."

The drunk man starts coughing, a really disgusting hacking cough.

He does not sound well at all.

"Don'... don'..." the man stammers, "don't call..." Slowly, his head nods off to the side and he passes out, tongue dangling from his mouth.

"There was little chance he'd be a reliable witness, anyway."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

His eyes move around erratically, the look in them hazy and unfocused. "Don't call Abigail," he says.

Walk away. [Leave.]

"Don't... call Abigail..." he whimpers softly, his voice trailing off into nothingness.

"Have you seen any women around here lately?"

"Abigail?" His voice perks up, then trails into a string of random babbling. "Abigail, where are you?"

"Why shouldn't I call Abigail?"

He snorts and beckons you to lean in closer.

Don't lean in.

He waves his hand, as if shooing you away, all the while murmuring something indecipherable.

Lean in.

His breath smells harsh like a toxic swamp as he whispers to you: "Don't call Abigail. Don't call Abigail!" He then waves his hand, as if shooing you away.

"Tell me about your friends." (Point to the others.)

He glares at you. "Don't ya fuckin' call her, hear me." His voice trembles with every word, becoming ever weaker. "Abigail," he whimpers in the end.

"Where am I? What is this place?"

The man hiccups, then mumbles something unintelligible.

"Don't call Abigail," grumbles an unshaven man with a ruddy nose. He narrows his eyes at you as if in recognition, then turns his head away.

The noxious odour emanating from the drunken man is strong and familiar.

"Don't ya call her, ya hear. Don't call Abigail..."

"This is making me uncomfortable." [Leave.]

The dozing man mumbles something inaudible.

"I'll call whoever I want, don't tell me what to do."

"Abigail!" He grunts. "Don't... don't call her." He waves a finger in your general direction.

You're not going to get anything from this guy. He's too drunk.

Never thought you'd see such a thing in your life, but this guy's a little too drunk.

"Who is Abigail?"

He draws out a disgusting snort, then mumbles, waving a finger in your general direction: "Ugh... Abigail... don't ya... fuckin'... call Abigail."

Abigail is his wife or girlfriend. Chances are, she's gone. Calling her wouldn't make it any better or worse.

"I am the law."

The lieutenant sighs. "You really don't have to... Besides, he will understand you anyway."

"Abigail... oh, Abigail..." He mutters while trying to brush something off his extremely dirty trousers. His movements are slow and awkward.

"Right, you might have found the one person who doesn't know you are the law, given how drunk he is."